Scene of the Crime: Return to Mystic Lake
Carla Cassidy
TWO FBI AGENTS WERE ON A CASE THAT COULD COST THEM THEIR CAREERS - AND THEIR LIVES. Only a life-and-death mission could make FBI special agent Jackson Revannaugh leave Louisiana for Kansas. But a husband and wife have gone missing in a case with disturbing similarities to an unsolved one, and Jackson’s desperate for answers. And the trick is keeping his taboo desire for his gorgeous new partner from compromising the operation. Marjorie Clinton knows Jackson’s type only too well. But with passion - and the case - heating up, she soon has to trust the Southern charmer with her life. Because someone in this friendly lakeside town is a killer. Someone who’s made Marjorie a target and could expose the secret Jackson hoped would stay buried forever.
He smelled her before he saw her, that sweet pear scent that instantly aroused him.
She stood in the doorway of his room. “Maggie?” he said softly.
“I’m looking for a nice Southern gentleman named Jackson,” she said, her voice slightly husky.
“That would be me,” he replied, his chest suddenly tight with anticipation.
“I thought you might be interested in a night with a woman who isn’t looking for anything more than this night and this night only.”
“Maggie …” He said her name with hesitation. Man, he wanted her. He thought he might even need her. But he knew things she didn’t know, things that would forever stand between them and make any future impossible.
Scene of the
Crime: Return to
Mystic Lake
Carla Cassidy
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
New York Times bestselling author CARLA CASSIDY is an award-winning author who has written more than fifty novels for Mills & Boon. In 1995, she won Best Silhouette Romance from RT Book Reviews for Anything for Danny. In 1998, she also won a Career Achievement Award for Best Innovative Series from RT Book Reviews.
Carla believes the only thing better than curling up with a good book to read is sitting down at the computer with a good story to write. She’s looking forward to writing many more books and bringing hours of pleasure to readers.
Contents
Chapter One (#uee86dbcc-e5fd-5f82-baa3-6524e0cd6771)
Chapter Two (#u420fc869-8edd-5b41-ae5e-68cc00fd214a)
Chapter Three (#u1014e58e-6e93-5d7a-9e47-3818747e0fa1)
Chapter Four (#u80d7fd6a-cf69-52e3-aac9-d06d7f0e881c)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Jackson Revannaugh knew he was in the land of Oz when the jet touched down in the middle of a patchwork of farmers’ fields. Nowhere near the Kansas City International Airport did he see any signs of a city.
It was already after 7:00 p.m. and he was eager to get off the plane. The flight from Baton Rouge had been over three hours long, and not only had a baby cried the entire trip, but the kid behind him had seemed to find great amusement in kicking the back of Jackson’s seat at regular intervals.
Jackson was working up to a stellar foul mood. Too little sleep in the past couple weeks, a long ride in cramped quarters and a bag of pretzels as his only food for the past eight hours or so had made Jackson a cranky man.
Thankfully, it took him only minutes to deplane. From the overhead bin he grabbed the large duffel bag that held everything he would need for the duration of his stay in Kansas City, Missouri. He then headed down the walkway toward the terminal entrance.
Just ahead of him were double doors that led outside the building. As he exited, Jackson realized that the humid mid-July heat of the Midwest had nothing on Bachelor Moon, Louisiana, where he’d spent the past several weeks of his life working on the case of a missing man, his wife and his seven-year-old stepdaughter.
He’d been yanked from that case before they’d had any answers and sent directly here to work on something similar. He stepped to the edge of the curb and fought the exhaustion that, over the past month, had settled on his shoulders like a heavy weight.
He’d been told a car would pick him up to take him to the small town of Mystic Lake, a thirty-minute drive from Kansas City. But he hadn’t been told specifically what kind of a car to look for.
What he’d like right about now was a big, juicy steak, a tall glass of bourbon, a ride to the nearest posh hotel for fluffy bath towels, a king-size bed and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Instead he stepped to the curb with a frown and the knowledge that it was probably going to be a long night and he wasn’t at the top of his game.
He had been given no details about whatever crime had taken place here; he knew only that he was to work with a partner from the Kansas City FBI field office.
Now if he could just find his ride, he could, sooner rather than later, solve the crime and be on his way back out of town and home to his luxury apartment in Baton Rouge.
He stepped back from the curb as a large blue bus pulled to the curb and belched a whoosh of hot exhaust. The doors swung open and for a brief moment Jackson wondered if he was supposed to get on the bus, but that didn’t make any sense.
When he’d spoken briefly on the phone earlier to Director Daniel Forbes of the Kansas City field office, he’d told Jackson to stand on the curb outside the luggage area of Terminal A and a car would be waiting.
He remained standing, tamping down an edge of new irritation. Where was the car? His plane had been right on time.
When the bus finally pulled away, a black sedan slid next to the curb. A petite woman with shoulder-length strawberry-blond curls and eyes the green of a Louisiana swamp opened the driver door and stood.
If there was one thing that could transform Jackson from a grouch to a gentleman, it was the sight of an attractive woman. God, he loved women.
“Agent Revannaugh?” she asked.
“That would be me,” he replied. He opened the back door and tossed his duffel bag onto the seat and then got into the passenger seat.
She got back behind the steering wheel, bringing with her the scent of honeysuckle and spice. Clad in a pair of tight black slacks and a short-sleeved white blouse that hugged her breasts and emphasized a slender waist, she was definitely a hum of pleasure in Jackson’s overworked brain.
As she swept her hair behind one ear, he noted what appeared to be a nice-sized emerald earring. Emeralds were a good choice for her, with her green eyes.
“Well, I feel my mood lifting already,” he said as she pulled away from the curb and into the traffic lane that would take them away from the airport terminal. “Darlin’, I wasn’t expecting my driver to be such a gorgeous piece of eye candy. What a nice welcome to Kansas City.” As usual when Jackson worked his charm, his Southern accent grew thicker and more distinct.
She slid him a quick, cool glance and then focused back on the road. “You just assume I’m nothing but your driver because I’m a woman? Hmm, not only a silly flirt, but a chauvinist, as well,” she replied. “I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself yet. I’m Special Agent Marjorie Clinton, lead investigator on this case. You’ll be working with me and you’ll quickly discover I’m not anyone’s ‘darlin.’”
Jackson sat up straighter in his chair, seeking a mental shovel to get out of the hole he’d already dug for himself. “I’m not a chauvinist,” he finally said. “I was told a driver would pick me up—I just assumed you were my driver and nothing more. And you might not be anyone’s darlin’, but you’re definitely a fine piece of eye candy.”
He watched her slender, ringless fingers tighten on the steering wheel and realized he’d just made the hole a little bigger. “Since it appears we’re going to be partners, perhaps it would be nice if we start all over again. Hello, I’m Special Agent Jackson Revannaugh.”
Once again those lush green eyes slid in his direction and then back to the road. “We’re about twenty minutes from Mystic Lake, a small town on the outskirts of Kansas City. I suggest we use that twenty minutes with me filling you in on things rather than pretending to play nice together. How much do you know about the case?”
“Virtually nothing,” Jackson admitted. She might look like a hot piece of work, but there was nothing hot in the cool disdain in her eyes when she glanced at him. Focus on the work and then get the heck out of Dodge, he thought.
“I was pulled off a case I was working in Bachelor Moon, Louisiana, and instantly dispatched here with no details other than the fact that this case appears to have some similarity to the one I was working.”
“Missing persons?” She turned off a four-lane highway and onto a two-lane that appeared to take them farther away from civilization.
“Three people seemingly disappeared into thin air at some point during an evening. Evidence of an interrupted late-night snack was on the table, but the two adults and one child have yet to be found. Me and a couple of my partners were on the case for several weeks and we found no clues, no real leads to follow.”
He took the opportunity to study her. Faint freckles, evident in the fading light of day, smattered the bridge of her nose. He had a feeling she wasn’t a woman who smiled often, although he knew instinctively that a smile would light up her face, warm her features into something even more beautiful.
“We have two missing persons, but unfortunately we don’t have a specific time line as to when exactly they went missing. The couple, Amberly Caldwell and her husband, Cole, were newlyweds, and were transitioning between Cole’s house in Mystic Lake and Amberly’s home in Kansas City.”
She stopped talking and slowed to make a right-hand turn, and then continued. “Amberly has a son, Max. The boy had spent the weekend with his father, John Merriweather. The arrangement was that Amberly would pick up Max from school yesterday afternoon. When she didn’t show up, John got worried and drove to Cole’s place.”
“But they weren’t there.”
Marjorie gave a curt nod of her head. “Both of their cars were in the driveway, but he couldn’t rouse them. Unfortunately, the deputy who had been called out made the determination that it would be best to give it twenty-four hours before officially doing anything.”
“He didn’t do a well-check?” Jackson asked in surprise. A well-check would have required an officer to get inside the house to make certain the occupants were okay.
“Small police force, underzealous officers and two people who aren’t old or sick.” Her voice once again held a faint touch of derision. “It was only late this afternoon that an officer finally broke into the front door and discovered that things weren’t right inside. That’s when my director got a phone call from Roger Black, Mystic Lake’s number one deputy. Apparently our director knew what was going on in Louisiana, and that’s when you were dispatched here.”
“I’ve heard there’s nothing better than Kansas City steaks, and my first impression of the women of the city is definitely a positive one.” He couldn’t help himself. Part of the way he prepared himself, part of his process in approaching a crime, was to small talk, to attempt to get on the good side of whoever he’d be working with during the course of an investigation.
Marjorie shot him a baleful look. Apparently she didn’t have a good side, he thought, as he sighed and stared out the passenger window, where the landscape was so different from what he was accustomed to.
Here there were stately oaks and leafy maples, stretches of fields with cornstalks reaching high. There were no graceful magnolia trees or cypresses with Spanish moss hanging like ghostly spiderwebs.
Jackson had never been out of Louisiana before. Kansas City would have to work hard to match the beauty and charm of his home state.
Speaking of charm, he turned his head to look at Marjorie. “Have you already been to the scene?”
“I came from there to pick you up,” she replied. “We’ve just done a cursory walk-through of the house. The crime scene unit hasn’t touched it. Nobody else has been inside except me and a couple of the Mystic Lake deputies. We were waiting for the hotshot from Louisiana to officially begin.”
“And that would be me,” he replied easily. “So, what did the initial walk-through tell you?”
“I’d rather you draw your own conclusions by seeing it first. I can tell you this—the doors were all locked and there is no sign of forced entry anywhere.”
“Tell me more about the potential victims. Who they are and what they do.” A victim rundown was usually as helpful as an official profile of the potential perpetrator.
“Cole Caldwell, thirty-six years old. He and Amberly married less than two months ago. She’s thirty-one, has a seven-year-old son and is a beautiful Native American woman. Apparently the two of them had been spending weekends packing up Caldwell’s place and getting his house ready to put on the market, as they’d decided to live full-time in Amberly’s home in Kansas City.”
Her voice was pleasant, but her tone was all business. “Amberly shares custody of Max with her ex-husband, who lives down the block from her house. They had an arrangement that worked well for everyone involved.”
“You never told me what each of them does for a living,” Jackson asked.
“Cole Caldwell is the sheriff of Mystic Lake.” She turned into the driveway of an attractive ranch house where several other Mystic Lake patrol cars were parked. She pulled up next to the curb, cut the engine and then turned to face Jackson.
For the first time a hint of emotion darkened her green eyes. “Amberly works with me. She is one of the brightest FBI profilers in the area.”
Jackson’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. “That’s odd. The case I was investigating in Bachelor Moon involved a man named Sam Connelly, a retired FBI profiler from the Kansas City office.”
* * *
MARJORIE HAD BEEN SICK from the moment she’d realized that one of the missing persons was Amberly. Although the two women hadn’t been superclose friends and had never worked a case together, they’d been friendly. Everyone in the office was on edge due to this new development.
She was grateful to get out of the car, where the scent of Jackson Revannaugh’s cologne had been far too pleasant. It whispered of bold maleness and an exotic spiciness that could be intoxicating if allowed.
She didn’t like him. She knew his type...the hotshot Southern charmer who never met a woman he wouldn’t take advantage of, who skated through life on a lazy smile and smooth style.
Oh, yes, she knew his type intimately, and she wasn’t about to fall prey to his questionable charisma. All she wanted was for the two of them to work as hard as possible to get Amberly and Cole back where they belonged.
Deputy Fred Morsi stood at the door as sentry. “Nobody has been inside since you left,” he said to Marjorie, as if assuring her he’d done his job properly.
He was one of the first locals Marjorie had met when she’d arrived on scene, and he’d instantly impressed her with his earnest face and professional attitude.
Marjorie nodded and grabbed a pair of booties from a box sitting on the front porch. As she pulled them on over her black sneakers, she noticed Jackson doing the same over his expensive-looking leather shoes. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves, his easy smile gone and his mouth set in a grim line instead.
So, there was another side to the hot Mr. Southern Charm, she thought. She frowned as she realized she’d just thought of Jackson Revannaugh as hot.
Of course, she was certain most women would find him a hunk, with his slightly long, slightly curly black hair and blue eyes, with chiseled features and a mouth that looked soft and pliable. She stifled a yelp as the latex of her glove snapped her wrist.
“Shall we?” she said to the tall, broad-shouldered man who was her temporary partner. She gestured to the closed front door.
“After you, darlin’,” he replied, and then winced. “I didn’t mean that.... Force of habit.”
The front door opened into a small formal living room. The only pieces of furniture were a couple of end tables and a stack of large boxes. Jackson stopped just inside the door behind Marjorie.
His dark blue eyes narrowed and he lifted his head, like a wild animal sniffing the air for prey. “No evidence that anything happened in this room?”
“Nothing,” she replied. The small formal living room opened into a large great-room/kitchen area. Here was the evidence that something unusual had taken place.
She followed Jackson’s gaze as it traveled around the room, taking in the oversize pillows on the floor in front of a coffee table that held two half-empty wineglasses and a platter of hardened, too-yellow cheddar cheese, crackers, and grapes starting to wither and emanate a slightly spoiled scent.
Jackson picked up one of the long-stem glasses and sniffed the contents. “Fruity... I smell a touch of cherry and plum and a faint dash of damp leather. Pinot noir would be my guess.” He set the glass back on the table as Marjorie stared at him in astonishment.
“There’s a bottle of pinot noir open on the kitchen counter,” she replied in surprise.
Jackson nodded. “Like a good Southern gentleman, I know my wines, although I definitely prefer a good glass of bourbon or brandy, and preferably with a lovely lady by my side.”
“But, of course,” she replied dryly.
He frowned at the coffee table. “So, it appears our two missing souls were seated here sharing what appears to be cocktail time together.”
“And something happened to interrupt their intimate little party,” Marjorie said.
“So it seems.” Jackson turned away from the coffee table and his gaze swept around the room. “No sign of a struggle. What have we here?” Nearly hidden at the edge of one of the pillows was a small black purse. He opened it and pulled out a cell phone, a wallet and a tube of lipstick.
Marjorie’s heart tumbled a little lower in her chest as she watched him open up the slender wallet. Inside was Amberly’s identification, thirty-two dollars and two credit cards.
“If somebody came in here to confront the two, it wasn’t anybody with robbery on their mind,” he said, his voice that low Southern drawl that Marjorie found both irritating and evocatively inviting at the same time.
He placed the items back in the purse. “We’ll take that phone to your techies at the bureau and see if they can find anything useful. Maybe somebody called and the two of them rushed out of here on an emergency.”
“Amberly would have let John know,” Marjorie replied with conviction.
He walked from the coffee table toward the kitchen area, his footsteps surprisingly heavy for a man who appeared so physically fit and agile.
She followed him into the kitchen, where she knew he would find nothing suspicious, nothing that might indicate what exactly had happened to Cole and Amberly.
She leaned a slender hip against the cabinet and watched as he checked the back door, opened drawers and cabinets that were mostly empty. He pulled a small notepad and pen from the pocket of his pristine white shirt and took some notes.
He might be an arrogant, smooth-talking pain in her butt, but he also appeared to be thorough and detail driven, and that was the only thing important to her in this case. Nothing else mattered, as long as he was as good at his job as he looked in his expensive white shirt and the tailored black slacks that fit him to perfection. He wore his gun and holster on a sleek leather belt around his waist, looking both lethal and sexy at the same time.
From the minute she had joined the FBI, nothing had mattered but the job and caretaking for her mother. This particular case hit too close to home, with a fellow FBI agent gone missing.
“Let’s take a look at the rest of the house,” he finally said when he’d finished checking out the kitchen.
“There isn’t much here. Two bedrooms have already been emptied of all the furniture, and there’s just a bed and a dresser left in the master suite.”
His footsteps thundered down the hallway, and he peeked into each room as they passed, finally stopping just inside the master bedroom.
“Smart man,” he said as he gazed at the bed with the navy bedspread. “He’s moved most of the furniture out but left a spot for foreplay in the family room and the bed to complete the night.” He turned to look at Marjorie and she was horrified to feel a warmth steal into her cheeks. Thank goodness he didn’t mention it.
“So, Amberly and Cole came here Friday night to pack things away, and Monday afternoon she didn’t show up to pick up her kid from school,” he continued. “Do you know if anyone spoke to either of them between those times?” he asked.
“When I left here to pick you up at the airport I had a couple of deputies and another FBI agent canvassing the neighborhood to find out the last time either of them was seen.”
She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in a number. “Adam. Any news?” She listened to the report, acutely aware of Jackson’s gaze taking her in from head to toe.
The temperature inside the house was a comfortable one for the heat of the night, but as her new partner’s gaze slid down the length of her, she felt the atmosphere in the room climb at least ten degrees warmer.
“Thanks,” she said to FBI agent Adam Forest, and then hung up. “According to what the officers have been able to find out for now, the next-door neighbor, Charles Baker, saw Cole and Amberly arrive here just after five on Friday night. About seven that same night he saw Cole again when he mowed the lawn. Nobody saw either of them after that...at least that we’ve talked to so far.”
She watched him open the top drawer of the dresser. She hadn’t had a chance to check things out this thoroughly before leaving the scene earlier to pick him up at the airport.
“Unless Sheriff Cole Caldwell is an unusual man for a sheriff, he didn’t leave here of his own volition.” He pulled a handgun from the drawer, along with a gold badge. “No sheriff I know would take off without his weapon and the very thing that defines him.”
Every muscle in Marjorie’s body tensed at the sight of the items. She’d hoped that this was all some kind of a mistake, that little Max and his father had somehow misunderstood, and Cole and Amberly had gone off for a mini-honeymoon.
“So, is this like what you were working on in Bachelor Moon?” she asked Jackson.
“Too early for me to make that jump.” He left the bedroom and she hurried after him. He walked back into the great room and stared at the coffee table and the oversize pillows. “On the surface things look very similar to what I was working on in Bachelor Moon, but it would be a mistake for us to leap to any conclusions this early in the investigation.”
“I can take you to Amberly’s place now. I have a couple of officers sitting on it so that nothing is disturbed.”
Together they stepped outside, where they both removed their booties and gloves. “I’ll be honest with you—at the moment what I need is a good meal, a strong drink and a soft bed,” Jackson said.
“But we still need to go to Amberly’s,” Marjorie protested.
“That can wait until morning,” Jackson said. “Whatever happened to Sheriff Caldwell and his wife happened here, not at the house in Kansas City. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“Exactly,” Marjorie replied. “And we need to work through the night if that’s what it takes to get to the bottom of this.”
“It’s going to take more than a single night to get to the bottom of this,” Jackson said as he headed for her car.
She hurried after him, irritated by his lack of work ethic. She didn’t know how they solved crime in Louisiana, but they sure as heck didn’t do it in Kansas City by eating a good steak and finding a soft bed.
“But you know how important the first forty-eight hours are right after a crime,” she said as they got into her car.
“I know, but as far as I can figure, we’ve already lost our first forty-eight-hour window. My gut says they disappeared from here sometime Friday night, and here we are on Tuesday night. Besides, at this point all we have is two people not where they said they would be...nothing to indicate that an actual crime took place at all.”
“Trust me, if Amberly told Max she’d pick him up at school yesterday, nothing would have kept her away except something terrible,” Marjorie replied. “Max always came first with her.”
“Have you checked the local hospitals? Maybe one of them got sick and hasn’t had a chance to call.” He obviously read on her face that it hadn’t been done yet.
“Then that’s something you can take care of after you drop me off at whatever place I’m staying while I’m here in town.”
“You aren’t staying here in Mystic Lake. The director set you up in a motel in Kansas City. Don’t worry, there’s a restaurant right next door where you can feed your face.” She started the engine, fighting a new blast of irritation directed at him.
FBI agents didn’t work normal business hours. When in the middle of a case they worked until they physically couldn’t work any longer.
To make matters worse, as she began the drive back toward the city, not only did Special Agent Jackson Revannaugh fall asleep, but the car filled with his faint, deep snores.
She was livid that she’d put off beginning the official investigation until this Louisiana man had arrived. She was ticked off that somehow her director thought he could potentially add a valuable perspective on the crime.
As if fate hadn’t already delivered enough painful hits in her life, it had now delivered up to her the partner from hell.
Chapter Two
Jackson shot straight up in bed, his heart beating frantically as early-morning light shone through the half-closed curtains on the nearby window. It took him several minutes to process the nightmares that had haunted his sleep and a little more time to realize exactly where he was.
Kansas City...the Regent Motel. He muttered a curse as he saw the time. Six-thirty, and if he remembered right, Agent Uptight’s last words to him after dropping him off the night before were that she’d be here to pick him up at seven.
Coffee. He needed coffee to take away the lingering taste of the nightmares that had chased through his sleep. He spied a small coffeemaker on the vanity and waited for it to brew the single cup. While the coffee was brewing, he unlocked his motel room door just in case Marjorie showed up early.
Once the coffee was ready, he took a big swallow and then carried the cup into the bathroom and set it on the counter while he got into the shower.
He knew Marjorie was angry that he had called a halt to the night before, but he’d also known that he wouldn’t be any real asset to her unless he took the night to catch up on some sleep. The case in Bachelor Moon had nearly drained him dry, both physically and mentally, and he’d needed last night to transition, to prepare himself for this new investigation.
At least she’d been right—while the motel wasn’t five stars, it was adequate and there was a decent restaurant next door. He’d walked there last night and had enjoyed his first taste of Kansas City barbecue...a pulled-pork sandwich and the best onion rings he’d ever tasted.
Maybe it was the sweet, tangy sauce that had given him the nightmares, he thought as he turned off the water and stepped out of the enclosure.
His dreams had been haunted by Sam Connelly, his wife, Daniella, and their little girl, Macy—the missing family from Bachelor Moon, who had yet to be found. Dashing around the edges of the darkness had been two more figures who he knew in his dream were Cole Caldwell and his wife, Amberly. And then there had been his father.
Jerrod Revannaugh had no place in his dreams, just as he had no place in Jackson’s life. The bond between father and son had been fractured long ago and finally completely broken just a little over five years ago.
He shoved away any lingering thoughts of nightmares, especially images of the man who had raised him, and instead wrapped a towel around his waist and got out his shaving kit.
Jackson knew he was a handsome man. It wasn’t anything he thought much about, just a fact he saw when he looked in a mirror. He was simply the product of good genes.
He also knew he had a charm about him that drew women to him, and though he enjoyed an occasional liaison with a sophisticated woman who knew the score, he made certain they also knew he was merely after a brief encounter and not interested in matters of the heart.
He was definitely not his father’s son. He might look like Jerrod Revannaugh, and the two men might share the Revannaugh ability to charm, but Jackson would never be the coldhearted bastard that his father had been. He always made sure his partner knew the score, unlike his father who had spent his life taking advantage of naïve women.
While he found his new partner hot to look at, she had a prickly exterior that he had no interest in digging beneath. Besides, it wasn’t as if he anticipated Agent Marjorie Clinton jumping his bones. She’d made it fairly clear that she didn’t particularly like him and would tolerate him only in order to further the investigation.
He’d managed to razor off the shaving cream on half of his face when he heard a firm knock on his door. A glance at the clock by the nightstand showed him it was ten until seven. He knew she was the type to be early.
“Come on in,” he shouted, and heard the door open. He leaned out of the bathroom to see her standing just inside the door. “You’re early.”
She shot ramrod straight. Her eyes widened and then her gaze instantly dropped to the carpeting, as if unable to look at him. “And it appears that you’re going to be late. I’ll just wait for you out in the car.”
She ran out of the room like a rabbit being chased by a hound dog and slammed the door behind her. Jackson turned back to the mirror in amusement. He hadn’t exactly been naked, but she’d skedaddled out of the room like a virgin.
He quickly finished his shaving, slapped on some cologne, grabbed his white shirt and slacks—neatly pressed the night before and on hangers—and dressed.
He had a feeling the longer she sat in the car waiting for him, the more difficult the mood would be between them. He suspected it was already going to be a long day. Her being cranky with him would only make it longer.
It was exactly three minutes after seven when he slid into the passenger seat of her car and shut the door. “Sorry I’m late. The last thing I would ever want to do is keep a lovely lady waiting,” he said with a smile.
“Stuff it, Rhett. I’m uncharmable and you might as well stop trying.” She started the car and pulled out of the parking space in front of his unit.
“Why, Scarlett, I haven’t even begun to attempt to charm you yet,” he replied with his trademark lazy grin.
She frowned. “We have a busy day ahead. We checked all the hospitals last night both here in Kansas City and in Mystic Lake. Cole and Amberly aren’t in any of them. I’ve set up an interview with John Merriweather, Amberly’s ex-husband, after nine. He didn’t want us at his place until after Max had left for school. I’ve also directed a couple of agents to check what cases Amberly was working on, and the same with Cole. There are also some other people we need to interview before the day is done. I have a list in my briefcase.”
“Wow, you’ve been a busy little bee while I was getting my beauty sleep.”
She ignored his comment and continued, “The crime scene unit worked all night at Cole’s house and basically came up with nothing. No fingerprints other than Cole’s and Amberly’s, and no evidence that anyone else had been in the house.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Any chance of breakfast before we get started on this long day you have planned?”
She picked up a white paper bag that was between them on the console and tossed it into his lap. “Two bagels, one blueberry and one cinnamon raisin. I had a feeling you’d ask.”
“Gee, I didn’t know you cared.” He opened up the bag to discover not only the two bagels, but also two small cups of cream cheese and a plastic knife.
“I don’t,” she replied. “But it appears that your creature comforts are very important to you.”
“And your comforts aren’t important to you?” he asked as he spread cream cheese over half of the cinnamon raisin bagel.
“Of course they are, but not so much when I’m working on a hot, active case.”
“This is already at best a lukewarm case,” he replied.
As she had yesterday, she wore a white blouse, a pair of dark slacks and sensible shoes. Her hair was a spill of strawberry silk across her shoulders and she smelled of fresh vanilla and sweet flowers.
She appeared not to be wearing a bit of makeup, but that did nothing to detract from Jackson’s physical attraction to her. Chemistry... It was a whimsical animal that usually made a fool out of somebody.
He ate the bagel in four quick bites and wished for another cup of coffee to chase it down. But there was no way he intended to ask her to drive through the nearest coffee shop. He wasn’t about to push his luck.
“Last night was more about my survival than creature comforts,” he said soberly. “I’d been working nonstop on the case in Louisiana. Yesterday I’d had a plane ride from hell, no food to speak of all day and not enough brain power left to be adequate at my job. This could either be a sprint or a marathon, and I’m betting on a marathon, and so I needed last night to prepare myself for the long haul. Not that I owe you any explanations of my working habits or methods.”
He settled back in his seat and stared out the passenger window. “Now, tell me about this John Merriweather,” he said, deciding he was far better to focus on solving this crime than imagine what his partner might look like without her clothes.
* * *
MARJORIE STOOD JUST INSIDE Amberly’s living room, a homey space decorated with pottery and bright colors and woven rugs celebrating her Native American heritage.
The room smelled of sage and sunshine, and it was obvious that a little boy resided here. The bookcases held not only pottery, but also puzzles and children’s books about horses and dinosaurs. A large plastic dump truck sat next to the coffee table, the bed filled with tiny army men.
Jackson prowled the room like a well-educated burglar, with booties and gloves to leave no evidence that he’d ever been here. As he moved, she tried not to think about that moment when she’d walked into his motel room and he’d leaned out of the bathroom with just the thin white towel hanging low on his slim hips.
His bare chest, sleekly muscled and bronzed, had been more than magnificent. As she’d gotten that glimpse of it, for a long moment she’d forgotten how to breathe, and she hadn’t been able to get the unwanted image out of her head.
He stopped and stared at the large painting above the fireplace. It depicted Amberly as an Indian princess on horseback. Her long dark hair emphasized doe eyes and high cheekbones. She was wild beauty captured on canvas.
Jackson turned to look at Marjorie at the same time she self-consciously shoved a strand of her hair behind an ear. “She’s quite beautiful,” he said, and then added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “But I much prefer blondes with just a hint of strawberry in their hair.”
“Does it just come naturally to you? Kind of like breathing?” she asked sarcastically.
“Yeah, just like breathing,” he replied with a genuine grin that warmed her despite her aggravation with him. He turned back to the painting. “Painted by her ex-husband?”
“Yes, John painted it.” She’d already told him that John Merriweather was a famous painter who was known for Western settings and beautiful Native American portraits. Most of the Native women he painted looked like his ex-wife. She’d read an article in some magazine where John had talked about how Amberly was his muse.
“How did John take their divorce?” Jackson turned back to look at her.
She shrugged. “According to the local gossip, initially he took it rather hard. But I think they had become more like friends than husband and wife. Amberly once mentioned to me that John’s greatest passion was his painting.”
Jackson frowned. “I love my work, but I save my passion for living, breathing people.”
Women. She knew he meant women. Not that it mattered to her what Jackson Revannaugh’s personal passion might be. “Are you married?” The question fell from her lips before it had even formed in her head.
“No, and have no intention of ever getting married. My problem is that I love all women, but I’ve never found one who I haven’t tired of after a week or so.”
“So, you are a player,” she said, having already suspected as much.
His blue eyes held an open honesty she wasn’t sure she could believe. “On the contrary, I only date women who know I’m looking for a passing good time and nothing more serious. I don’t toy with hearts or emotions. And now, shall we get back to the case?” He lifted a dark eyebrow wryly.
Heat warmed Marjorie’s cheeks in an unmistakable blush. Thankfully he didn’t comment on it but rather moved from the living room into the kitchen.
He hadn’t even asked her if she was married or if she had a boyfriend. He probably thought she was too much of a witch to hold a man’s attention for more than a minute.
She was, and that was the way she wanted it. She had enough on her plate with her job and helping to pay for the fancy apartment where her mother lived and believed she was still a wealthy heiress.
She didn’t have time for men. She’d had one brief relationship years ago and he’d turned out to be untrustworthy, as she’d come to believe most men were. She’d been through enough men with her mother, seen what they were capable of, especially the handsome ones full of charm. Nope, she had already decided she’d eventually get a cat, but there would never be a man in the small house where she lived.
Of course, that didn’t mean she would never have sex again. Like Jackson, if she did she’d just have to make it clear to her partner that she was a one-night stand—not a forever—kind of woman.
She snapped her attention back to realize Jackson had left the kitchen. It was easy to follow the sound of his heavy footsteps down the hallway to the bedrooms.
Focus on the job, she reprimanded herself, irritated that Jackson had somehow managed to throw her off her normal game, and she’d been working with him less than two hours this morning.
It took them only minutes to check out the bedrooms and return to the living room. “There doesn’t appear to be anything here to tie into whatever happened at Cole’s house in Mystic Lake,” he said. “I think it’s time we go talk to John Merriweather.”
“He lives less than two blocks away.” She checked her watch. It was a quarter after nine. Max would have already left for school and John would be waiting for them.
Within minutes they pulled into the driveway of John Merriweather’s neat ranch house. Although John was a respected artist whose work was both expensive and in constant demand, he had remained in the house where he and Amberly had lived as a married couple over five years ago.
“John and Amberly lived here together when they were married,” she explained to Jackson. “When they divorced, Amberly bought her house close by so that Max could stay near his father.”
“Do they have a court-ordered child custody agreement?” Jackson asked.
“Not that I know of. I think they just winged it and it worked for them.”
“We’ll see if it was really working out that well, especially when a new man entered the picture,” Jackson replied as he got out of the car. “I’ll do the interview with him,” he said in a clipped tone she hadn’t heard before.
She hurried after him, wondering when she’d lost control as lead investigator. She’d allow Jackson to have his moment now, but then she would remind him that this was her case, and he’d simply been invited in to help.
John answered on the first knock. He was a handsome man with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. At the moment he wore a pair of jeans, an old T-shirt and a simmering panic that shone bright from his eyes.
Jackson took care of the introductions, and John sighed in relief. “Have you found them?” he asked as he allowed them entry into the house.
“No, and that’s why we’re here. We’d like to ask you some questions.” Although the Southern accent remained, there was nothing of the lazy charmer in Jackson’s demeanor. His eyes were an ice-blue as they gazed at John.
“Ask me questions about what?” John sank down to the sofa as if unable to stay on his feet beneath the intensity of Jackson’s gaze.
Jackson remained standing, as did Marjorie, her gaze darting around the room with professional interest. Nice furniture, although the space had a lived-in look with a newspaper spread across the top of the coffee table and several matchbox cars on a highway built of paper on the floor.
The walls were filled with Merriweather’s artistic genius, framed canvases of paintings in bright colors, including several of Amberly.
“How did you feel when your ex-wife married Cole Caldwell?” Jackson asked.
“I was happy for her...happy for them. All I ever wanted for Amberly was her happiness. What’s this all about? Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with whatever has happened to them.” John’s voice held a hint of outrage.
“Were you worried that your son might start to think of Cole as his daddy, cutting you out of his life?” Jackson’s tone held an edge of suspicion that Marjorie instinctively knew he was doing on purpose.
“That’s crazy,” John scoffed. “My son loves me and I hope he and Cole love each other. A child can’t have too many people to love them in their life.”
“What did you do over the past weekend?” Jackson asked as he pulled his small notepad and pen from his shirt pocket.
John released an impatient sigh. “I had Max all weekend. Friday night we went to a movie, Saturday we went to the mall and did a little shopping and then ate at the food court, and then Sunday we hung out here all day.” His hands clenched tight although he kept his voice calm. “You’re wasting precious time here. I would never do anything to hurt Cole and Amberly, especially because they are important to my son. I would never do something like that to him.”
He looked beseechingly at Marjorie. “Do you have children?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t.” His question created a wistful ache inside her, one she quickly tamped down. In order to have any children she’d have to trust a man, and that wasn’t in the cards for her.
“Then you can’t understand the love a father has for his son.” He half rose from the sofa. “You have to find them. Max needs his mother.” Tears filled his eyes and he fell back against the cushions.
“Has Amberly mentioned any problems she’s had with anyone lately?” Jackson pressed on.
John frowned. “No, not that I can think of. She went through a terrible trauma last year, but the person who tried to kill her was shot dead. Since then she’s just seemed happy with Cole and hasn’t mentioned any problems or issues with anyone.”
Jackson wrote something down on his pad and then looked back at John. “How was your relationship with Cole?”
“Fine. It was fine.” John’s control appeared to be slipping. Marjorie saw his hands once again tighten into fists in his lap, and his voice had an edge that had been absent before. “Cole is a good man, and if I’d handpicked the man I wanted in Amberly’s life, in my son’s life, it would have been a man like him.”
He looked at Marjorie again. “Please, find them. Max needs his mother. He doesn’t know that they’re missing. I just told him his mother was late in coming back from Mystic Lake. For God’s sake, don’t make me tell him she’s missing again.” The humble plea in John’s voice shot straight to Marjorie’s heart.
“Are you seeing anyone now?” Jackson asked, obviously unmoved by John’s emotion.
“Seeing anyone? You mean, like, dating?” John shook his head. “Not at the present time.”
“Have you dated at all since your divorce from Amberly?”
John’s eyes took on a hard edge of their own. “You think I’m so obsessed with my ex-wife and that I killed her and her new husband?” he scoffed. “I’ve had several brief relationships since Amberly and I divorced.”
“Why brief?” Jackson was relentless, and still with the cold demeanor that had Marjorie thanking her stars that he’d never be interrogating her.
“I have my work and I have Max—that doesn’t leave me much time for romance.” John stood. “Are we finished here? You’re wasting valuable time when you could be out hunting who kidnapped Amberly and Cole.”
“You think they’ve been kidnapped?” Jackson jotted something else in his notepad.
John raked a hand through his hair, his features once again twisted in agony. “I don’t know. I don’t know what in the hell happened to them. I just know that Amberly would never just disappear like this on Max unless something terrible happened. You’ve got to find them.”
“We’re going to,” Marjorie said, cutting off anything else Jackson might want to say. She stepped toward where John stood and pulled one of her cards out of her pocket. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, if you remember anyone who might be a threat to Amberly or Cole, call me.”
John took the card with shaking fingers and nodded. “And you’ll let me know what’s happening with the investigation?”
“We’ll keep you up to date,” Marjorie assured him.
“Like hell we will,” Jackson said a few moments later when they were back in his car. “Right now John Merriweather is at the very top of my suspect list.”
Marjorie shot him a look of surprise.
“Think about it, Maggie. Who has the most to gain from Amberly and Cole disappearing? Max’s father, that’s who. He has a great motive for wanting them gone.”
She didn’t want to even think about the fact that he’d just called her Maggie, something nobody else in her entire life had ever done. She didn’t intend to reprimand him now, as right now she was considering what he’d said about John Merriweather.
“He might have a good motive to get rid of them in a sick sort of way, but he doesn’t have opportunity. He had his son with him all weekend long,” she replied.
She pulled out of the Merriweather driveway and headed in the direction of the Kansas City field office where they would next be interviewing Amberly’s closest coworkers.
“I saw a picture of Max and his dad on the bookcase. What is he...about six?” Jackson asked.
“Seven,” Marjorie replied. “I think he’s going to be eight in a couple months.”
“I don’t know about you but when I was seven my father could have tucked me into bed and then left the house, gone to a movie, slept with a woman and been back home again before I woke up the next morning.”
She slid him a curious glance. “And where would your mother have been while your father was out through the night hours?”
“Dead. She died when I was five, of cancer. But that really doesn’t matter now—my point is that John could have easily slipped outside the house while Max slept, driven to Mystic Lake and done something to Amberly and Cole and been back before Max awoke the next morning.”
“So, supposing he made that midnight run to Mystic Lake, then where are Amberly and Cole? If he killed them, why not just leave the bodies in the house?”
“Nobody said I had all the answers, darlin’. I just have theories.”
“I think this one is kind of lame,” she replied.
“Maybe,” he agreed, the laid-back agent once again present. “John mentioned something about the last time a man tried to kill Amberly. What was that all about?”
“It’s actually the case that brought Amberly and Cole together. Somebody was killing young women in Mystic Lake and leaving dream catchers hanging over their bodies. The mayor of Mystic Lake asked for FBI help, and since Director Forbes thought Amberly was the perfect agent to assist, because of the Native American overtones, she was sent to Mystic Lake to work with Cole.”
She paused to make the turn into the parking area of the field office, a three-story brick building in the downtown area. “The perp eventually went after Amberly and trapped her in a rented storage unit. It was John’s best friend and neighbor who had taken her.”
She frowned in thought as she pulled into a parking place. “Ed...Ed Gershner was his name. He had some crazy notion that the only way John would be happy again was if Amberly was dead and John could finally forget her. Thankfully, Cole found Amberly, killed Ed and the rest, as they say, is history.”
She turned off the engine and they both got out of the car. “Hopefully these interviews will go fairly quickly. It’s got to be getting close to lunchtime by now,” he said.
Marjorie hurried after his long strides, successfully stifling the impulse to knock him upside his head.
Chapter Three
Amberly Nightsong Caldwell’s coworkers at the FBI field office had little to disclose about anyone who might want to harm her. She wasn’t currently assigned to any active case. Her director knew she was in the middle of a transitional time in moving Cole into her home, and so he’d given her desk duty pushing paperwork, and regular hours until she and Cole got things settled.
Jackson had stepped back and allowed Marjorie to interview the players, since they were also her coworkers.
He quickly noticed that while the people they spoke to all appeared to respect Marjorie, none of them seemed to be particularly close to her. She was apparently a loner who didn’t require friends.
Jackson had tons of men he counted as close friends in past partners and at the Baton Rouge field office. Jackson wasn’t only considered a ladies’ man—he was a man’s man, as well.
He was the first one to invite a crew over to his place for drinks and chips and dip during a football game, or get together a group to do some horseback riding at nearby stables or head to a firing range for a little impromptu competition.
One thing had become increasingly clear to Jackson as the morning had gone on. Marjorie Clinton was one uptight woman. She smiled rarely and the few she sent his way were filled with either irritation or a strange curiosity, as if he were a species of animal she didn’t know and certainly didn’t trust.
She intrigued him. He was interested to know her background, what made her who she was today. It was unusual for him to care enough to want to know that much about a woman.
When they’d finally finished up with Amberly’s coworkers, he’d insisted they find a place where they could sit and eat lunch before beginning the next phase of interviews in Mystic Lake.
“Don’t look so miserable,” he told her when they sat down across from each other in a booth in a nearby diner.
“We could have just done drive-through on the way to Mystic Lake and saved some time,” she replied.
Jackson opened a menu and shoved it toward her. “Mystic Lake will still be there whether we take ten minutes doing drive-through or half an hour actually sitting and eating.”
“Don’t you feel any urgency?” she asked, leaning toward him, her green eyes shining brightly. Her lashes were long and dark brown and he noticed, not for the first time that day, that she smelled of the fresh scent of a fabric softener combined with a hint of wildflowers.
“Ladybug, we’re past the point of urgency. Urgency should have happened Saturday or Sunday. I wonder how the burgers are here?” He shouldn’t be thinking about how good she smelled or the fact that he’d like to see a genuine smile from her directed at him.
“Who cares? I have a case of two missing people, and a partner who only wants to know when his next meal is due.”
“Do you have many friends?” he asked.
She blinked twice and sat back. He knew she’d worked up a head of steam about taking the time out for lunch and probably was ticked off by the use of a pet name. His question had caught her off guard.
Her cheeks dusted a beautiful pink. “Actually, no. I don’t have a lot of friends. I work all the overtime I can get and I spend my free time either sleeping or visiting with my mother.”
“And your father?”
She opened her menu and lowered her gaze. “He died when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been tough for you and your mother.”
“We got by,” she replied, and still didn’t meet his gaze.
“You’re more comfortable if we talk about the case?”
He was rewarded with a flash of her eyes as she gazed up at him intently. “Yes,” she said. “Unfortunately I don’t think this is tied to anything Amberly was currently working on. Nobody we spoke to indicated she was having problems with anyone.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of a blonde waitress with large breasts and a name tag that read June. “Hey, sweet June bug, how about you get us a couple of burgers and fries,” he said.
“And what would you like to drink?” She practically tittered the words as she blushed at Jackson.
“I’ll take a diet cola,” Marjorie said stiffly.
“And I’ll take a regular,” Jackson replied.
As the waitress left the table with a swing of her hips, Marjorie shot him a wicked stare. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Maybe I don’t want to help myself,” he replied, and leaned forward. “Do you know how many jackasses June bug probably puts up with on a daily basis? Bad tippers, chronic complainers... What’s wrong with giving her a little ray of sunshine. It cost me nothing and made her smile.”
She studied him for a long moment. “I’m not sure if I like you or not, Special Agent Revannaugh.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ve really only known me for less than a day. I’ll grow on you.”
“Right, like moss,” she said dryly.
“Okay, just to get on your good side, we’ll talk about the case. You’re right. I think if we’re going to find answers they are going to be in Mystic Lake. There has been no ransom demand, so if they were kidnapped it wasn’t for money.”
“They were kidnapped,” she said with a certainty. “That’s the only thing that could keep Amberly away from her son.” She frowned thoughtfully. “We don’t even know for sure who the intended victim was. One was probably the victim and the other was collateral damage.”
“If Amberly was the intended victim, then we already have a suspect with a motive in John,” he replied. “We’ll see what we turn up in Mystic Lake and see if Cole might have been working on a case that caused somebody to want revenge of some kind.”
“I still can’t believe that John would do anything to hurt Cole or Amberly,” she replied.
“Yeah, but one of her coworkers mentioned that after Ed the potential killer was killed, John tried one last time to get back with his ex-wife,” Jackson reminded her.
“But it obviously went nowhere and Amberly and John remained friends. Cole and Amberly got married and everyone moved on with their lives.”
“At least on the surface,” he replied.
The waitress returned with their drinks, flashing Jackson a wink as she placed his before him. “Burgers will be right up,” she said.
“Thanks, June bug,” he replied.
“Do you suffer from multiple personality disorder?” Marjorie asked.
Jackson nearly snorted pop through his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When you were interviewing John earlier you were sharp, no-nonsense and on top of your professional game, but now you’re totally different. You’re a laid-back flirting machine.”
“Flirting machine. Hmm, I like that,” he said in amusement and then sobered. “Maggie, if you play this game too long without being able to compartmentalize, you burn out quickly,” he replied. “If I were to make a prediction, I’d guess that you’re going to burn out fast if you approach all of your cases with the same intensity you’re already using to attack this one.”
At that moment June arrived with their burgers, and for a few minutes they both focused on their food. Marjorie ate quickly, obviously eager to get back on the road and moving.
“So, who are we talking to in Mystic Lake?” he asked as he dragged a French fry through a pool of ketchup.
“Our point person there is Deputy Roger Black. He wasn’t at the scene last night but we’re to meet him in his office when we hit town. He’s acting sheriff until Cole is found,” she said.
“Has he managed to get us any suspects? Mentioned anything Cole was working on?”
“I’ve only had a brief conversation with him and we didn’t get into the details. I’m hoping he’ll have some information when we meet with him.” She looked at her watch and then quickly took another bite of her burger.
“How long have you been on the job?” he asked.
“Two years. I joined the FBI when I turned thirty. I was a cop before that.” She used a napkin to dab her mouth. “What about you?”
“Seven years. I was twenty-eight when they tapped me for recruitment. And like you, before that I was working as a homicide cop and working with a behavioral unit to aid in profiling violent offenders. My work there caught the FBI’s eyes and here I am.”
“But there’s no indication that what we’re dealing with here is a particularly violent offender.” Her eyes shimmered with the need to believe that.
Jackson sighed. He’d made a vow long ago to himself that he would never, ever lie to a woman, no matter how painful the truth might be.
“It’s too early to know,” he finally replied. “All we know for sure right now is that it appears that nothing violent occurred at Cole’s house.”
A look of pain tightened her features. She might appear uptight and in control, but Jackson had a feeling she was soft, too soft for the job she was doing.
“I’m hoping at least Deputy Black can give us somewhere to begin,” Marjorie said when they were once again in the car and headed to Mystic Lake.
“Have you considered the possibility that they might be dead?” Jackson asked softly.
He saw the impact of his words in the swift etch of pain that once again crossed her features, in the tightening of her fingers around the steering wheel. “It’s too early in the investigation to come to that conclusion. We have a lot of things to accomplish before we even consider that.”
“It’s been four days since anyone has heard from them.” He wanted to prepare her for whatever they might discover. He was also surprised to realize that he somehow wanted to protect her.
He chalked it up to the fact that she was a relatively new agent while he was a seasoned veteran who had seen the horrible things people were capable of doing to each other.
“I know, but we have absolutely no evidence to support that they’ve been murdered.”
“Right now we don’t even have the evidence to support that they’ve been kidnapped,” he reminded her.
“All I know for sure is that something bad has happened to them and we need to figure out what it was, who it is who’s kept Amberly away from her son.”
Jackson didn’t want to remind her that the case he’d been working on in Bachelor Moon had involved three people who had gone missing and had yet to be found. No answers, no closure...nothing.
Still, he couldn’t imagine how this case in Mystic Lake, Missouri, would be related to the case in Bachelor Moon, Louisiana. The two small towns were about a thousand miles away from each other. It had to be some sort of strange coincidence.
He hoped it was just a coincidence, because if the two cases were tied together he knew with certainty that they were way over their head.
* * *
“I’VE GOT A COUPLE OF NAMES of people for you to check out, although I don’t have any evidence that either of them were involved.” Roger Black looked ill at ease seated in the chair behind the large oak desk that belonged to his boss.
“What I’m hoping is that Cole decided to surprise Amberly with an impromptu late honeymoon and they’re off on some exotic island enjoying their time alone,” he added.
“Did Cole mention a trip?” Marjorie asked, hoping that there might be a possibility of a happy ending, after all. Maybe John had forgotten plans for a honeymoon that the couple had.
“Nothing specific, but it wasn’t too long ago he said he had a mind to surprise Amberly with a trip to the Bahamas,” Roger replied.
“Have you checked financials? Talked to airlines?” Jackson asked.
Roger swept a hand through his brown hair. “To be honest with you, we haven’t done much of anything since we heard the Feds were being called in. According to the mayor, you are in charge. I’ve got my men ready to cooperate and do whatever you tell us to do.”
“We’ve already lost a lot of time,” Marjorie said.
Roger shrugged. “We didn’t really get worried about them until last night. It’s not a crime for two consenting adults to take off somewhere or not be where they are supposed to be.”
“The first thing we want you to do is assign somebody to look at both Cole and Amberly’s financials, see if anything has moved since last Friday night,” Jackson said. “Check back over the last three months or so. If Cole bought tickets to an exotic island, then we’ll find proof of that.”
Roger nodded. “I’ll get Deputy Ray McCloud on it right away. He’s our techie freak. If there’s a paper trail, so to speak, of anything like that, he’ll find it.”
“I also want you to assign a couple of officers to walk the streets, ask questions and see if we can find anyone who had any contact with the missing couple after Friday night. And you mentioned a couple of names for us?” Marjorie asked.
She wanted action. She needed to be doing something to move the investigation forward as quickly as possible. Jackson was right—she worked like a dog until conclusions were reached and bad guys were arrested. She was a hare, not a tortoise.
“I know Cole was having some issues with Natalie Redwing,” Roger said.
Jackson pulled out his notepad and pen. “What kind of problems?”
“She was kind of, like, stalking him.” Roger gave a dry laugh. “Cole thought she was harmless, but irritating.” He gave them her address.
“Who else?” Marjorie asked.
“Jeff Maynard. He’s a bartender at Bledsoe’s on Main Street. He didn’t like Cole and he definitely didn’t like Amberly. He’s a hothead loser, although I doubt he has the brains to kidnap a couple of people and not leave any clues behind. Off the top of my head those are the only two I’ve ever heard about Cole having any issues with.”
Minutes later, armed with address information, Jackson and Marjorie left the small sheriff’s office and headed out to interview both new suspects.
“You can do the interviewing with Jeff Maynard and I’ll take Natalie Redwing,” Jackson said.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’d want to talk to the woman and assign me the hothead loser?” Marjorie said dryly.
Jackson gave her that slow, lazy slide of his lips into a smile that heated places inside her that had never been warm before. “I’m hoping you can find a little charm and twist that hothead loser right around your little finger.”
“Yeah, right, I’ve been holding out on you with the charm thing,” Marjorie replied sarcastically.
She was aware of Jackson’s gaze lingering on her as she focused on Main Street and searched for Bledsoe’s tavern. It was late enough in the afternoon that Jeff Maynard should be working.
“I think you might be hiding a little bit of charm under a basket and I’ve decided it’s my goal in life to figure out how to get that basket off your head.”
Marjorie couldn’t help herself—laughter bubbled to her lips and she shook her head. “You’re a funny man, Agent Revannaugh.” She pulled into a parking place in front of Bledsoe’s, a long, low building at the edge of town.
“You know, that’s the first time I’ve seen a genuine smile on your lips or heard laughter from you. You should do it more often. It definitely becomes you.”
“I’m not a laughing kind of woman,” she replied as she turned off the car engine. “I haven’t had much to laugh about in my life.”
“Then my second job is to change that,” he replied.
“Duty calls.” She got out of the car and slammed the door, more touched by Jackson’s words than she wanted to admit. She couldn’t let him get to her. She’d seen what men like him had done to her mother’s life, to her life, and she was not going to be one of those women who fell for the charm and never saw the callous calculation beneath.
At just after four in the afternoon, Bledsoe’s already had a few customers seated on stools at the long bar. It was semidark inside and reeked of booze and a faint underlying hint of urine.
It was the kind of place where the clientele was tough, bar fights occurred on a regular basis and nobody came for a social event. A jukebox played an old country song about a broken heart and a Texas man, but Marjorie was beginning to think it wasn’t the tall, handsome cowboys you had to watch out for, it was the smooth-talking Southerners.
As she approached the bar, she pulled out her official identification from her purse, careful to keep the side of her purse that had a built-in gun holster against her body. She went toward the dark-haired bartender, feeling no need to show any more authority than her badge, but she was prepared, should that change.
“Smells like Feds to me,” the bartender said as he slowly wiped a glass dry.
“Ah, nice to know you have a good sense of smell,” Marjorie said, forcing a pleasant smile to her lips. She almost felt as if she had something to prove to her partner, that she could be as charming as she needed to be while talking to a potential suspect.
“You’re cuter than your partner.” He set down the glass and jabbed a finger in the direction of Jackson, who stood a couple of inches behind her.
“Thanks. I’m smarter, too. But I let him think he’s smarter because he has a huge ego.”
Jackson cleared his voice as the bartender barked a dry laugh.
“We’re looking for Jeff Maynard,” she said.
“You found him, sweetheart, but as far as I know I haven’t done anything to get special attention from the FBI.” His eyes were dark with more than a hint of wariness.
“What do you know about Cole and Amberly Caldwell’s disappearance?” Marjorie asked.
“Only that I’m not gonna cry in my beer tonight over it.” He picked up a wet cloth and gave the bar a desultory swipe. “Look, I know you’re here because everyone in Mystic Lake knows I don’t like Cole. I have a problem with authority figures,” he added with a smirk.
Marjorie leaned closer to the bar, closer to the man she knew might possibly have had something to do with Cole and Amberly’s disappearance. “All authority?” she asked with a teasing lilt to her voice.
She sensed Jackson leaning closer behind her, but she kept her gaze focused on Jeff, as if he were the most important person on the face of the earth. A small, lewd grin curved his lips. “Well, maybe not all. I wouldn’t mind getting over it by maybe handcuffing you to my bed.”
Marjorie blinked in shock and leaned backward, bumping into Jackson’s firmly muscled chest. “I must protest,” Jackson said in his pleasant Southern drawl. “If anyone is going to handcuff this little lady to his bed, it’s going to be me.”
Marjorie felt as if she were having an out of body experience. “Where were you this past weekend?” she asked Jeff, trying to get her feet beneath her and get the conversation back on track.
The smirk disappeared from Jeff’s face. “Friday is my night off. I was out with buddies. Saturday night I worked my usual shift here, from four until close.”
“And where did you go with these buddies on Friday night?” Marjorie asked. She didn’t bother to pull out her pen and pad. She knew instinctively that Jackson already had his out.
“We were at Jimmy Tanner’s place, playing poker. He’s newly divorced, thanks to Cole and Amberly and their prying into private lives when they were investigating the murders of those women last year.”
“Jimmy Tanner, what’s his address?” Marjorie asked, realizing she’d just added another name to a potential suspect with a motive of revenge.
“At the moment he’s living at the Mystic Lake Motel on the south side of town,” Jeff replied. “His wife really took him to the cleaners in the divorce.”
By the time they left Bledsoe’s, they had not only added Jimmy Tanner’s name to their list, but also Raymond Chandler, who had also been at the supposed poker party on Friday night.
“I’m impressed, Ms. Maggie. I think there’s a bit of naughty woman trapped inside you,” Jackson said once they were back in the car.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed, cheeks far too warm. “There’s no naughty inside of me. I’m by the book, rigid and uptight. Trust me, Jackson, I know who I am.”
“I wonder,” he mused. She kept her mouth firmly closed, not wanting to know what he wondered. “Let’s head on back to Kansas City,” he said. “We can drive back out here and start with this Natalie Redwing first thing in the morning.”
“Why not do it now?” Marjorie asked.
Jackson looked at his watch. “It’s going to be close to six by the time we make it back to Kansas City. I say we order a pizza and sit down and go through what we know, figure out who needs to be interviewed next and get a general idea of where we are.”
“Right now it feels like we’re nowhere,” she replied.
“Exactly. It might surprise you to know that I can be a by-the-book kind of guy despite my huge ego.”
She glanced over to catch him smiling that sexy grin of his. “So, what does that mean?”
“It means I’d like to feed my notes into my laptop and see if we really have nothing or if we’ve already made any connections that might lead somewhere. I also want to utilize some resources I have with the agency to double-check bank records, travel and anything else that might pop up with Amberly or Cole’s names.”
“But you just assigned that task for Deputy Black to take care of,” she replied.
“You know our resources are better than theirs.”
“Okay, sounds like a plan,” she replied somewhat reluctantly. She had a feeling being in a motel room with Jackson Revannaugh for any reason probably wasn’t the best idea.
Chapter Four
He couldn’t get the vision of her smile, the sound of her laughter, out of his head. Something about Marjorie Clinton was getting under his skin, Jackson thought as he paid the pizza delivery boy an hour later.
He carried the box to the table and chairs that sat in front of the windows in the motel room. His laptop was open to a file labeled Mystic Lake/Kansas City.
While they had awaited the food delivery, the two of them had sat side by side as he fed into the file the bits and pieces of information they had attained so far in the case.
He’d tried not to notice how shiny her hair was beneath the lamp that hung from the ceiling over the center of the table. He’d tried not to draw in the sweet scent of her that made him think of tangled sheets and slick bodies.
The pizza was a compromise. His half was spicy pepperoni and sausage, and hers was mushroom and green pepper. It was just an indication to him that they were complete opposites and he had no business thinking about what she would look like naked, how her lips would taste or if he could evoke any passion that might be hidden beneath her emotional walls.
Surely these thoughts were only because they were in a relatively intimate setting and there was no question that he was physically attracted to her.
She looked relaxed for the first time since they’d met. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the top, revealing her delicate collarbone, and her body appeared to hold none of the tension of the day.
“So, tomorrow we check out the names we have of people from Mystic Lake,” she said as he opened the box and handed her several napkins. She leaned closer to him to look at his computer screen. “Jimmy Tanner, Raymond Chandler and Natalie Redwing—we should be able to have those interviews finished by noon, and maybe one of them will give us more information.”
“We also need to check back in with Deputy Black and maybe interview some of the other deputies who worked with Cole.” He waited until she took a piece of the pie and then he grabbed a piece for himself. “It’s possible that somebody who worked for Cole didn’t have his back.”
Marjorie frowned thoughtfully. “We might reinterview John Merriweather again to see if he’s thought of anything new.”
“He’s still at the top of my suspect list,” Jackson replied and then bit into the slice he had folded in half.
“I’m anxious to talk to Jimmy Tanner and Raymond Chandler to see how well they can corroborate Jeff’s poker game alibi for Friday night,” she replied.
“He seems so obvious as a suspect,” Jackson replied, sorry when she leaned back in her chair and put some distance between them. “He didn’t make any bones about the fact that he doesn’t like the sheriff.”
“Sometimes it’s the most obvious suspect that turns out to be the perp.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin and for the next few minutes they fell into silence as they devoured the pizza.
He liked watching her. She had the kind of expressive face that let him know when her thoughts were happy or somber. He found himself wishing he knew what was going through her mind.
He chided himself irritably. Marjorie wasn’t a player. She was with him now because she was assigned to work this case with him, and when the case was over she’d probably never think of him again.
And that was the way it was supposed to be, he reminded himself. He glanced up to find her impossibly green eyes locked with his. “You’ve gotten very quiet,” she said. “What are you thinking about?”
“I’m wondering why you don’t have some boyfriend ticked off because you’re working with an irresistible, handsome devil like me.”
She tossed the last of a piece of crust into the box and wiped her mouth once again. “I don’t have a boyfriend because I don’t want a boyfriend. I’m perfectly comfortable alone.” She hesitated a moment and her eyes deepened in hue. “I had enough scheming stepfathers in my life to be done with the idea of relationships or marriage for the rest of my life.”
“What do you mean by scheming stepfathers?”
She hesitated, as if weighing how much of herself she was willing to give to him. “When my father died, he left my mother a very wealthy woman, wealthy enough and lonely enough that she was easy pickings for smooth-talking con men to take advantage of.”
She worried her napkin in her lap as Jackson’s pizza suddenly sat heavily in his stomach. “It took three husbands to swindle her out of her last dime and leave her broke and alone.” She shrugged. “I’m not much inclined to share anything with anyone after that experience.”
“I’m sorry,” Jackson said, knowing it was inadequate and also recognizing that if she ever found out about his own father, she’d hate Jackson and would never believe that he wasn’t a chip off the old block.
“It’s not your fault, and I have Mom settled in a nice apartment, surrounded by beautiful furnishings so she can feel like she’s still living a bit of the good life.”
“And what has that done for your lifestyle?” he asked.
Once again she shrugged. “I don’t require much. I’ve managed to get myself a little two-bedroom house that’s just right for me.”
Although she didn’t say it, although she didn’t even intimate it, Jackson knew she must be making personal sacrifices to keep her mother happy. An unexpected pain ripped through his heart, along with a lot of guilt he knew he didn’t deserve but hadn’t been able to shake from his psyche for years.
“You know you shouldn’t judge all men by what happened to your mother,” he said.
“I don’t. I’m a cautious woman, Jackson. I just don’t take chances, not in my job as an FBI agent and not in my personal life.”
“Being too cautious can close you off from important experiences,” he replied.
“I recognize that and I’m okay with it. My life is just the way I like it—predictable and without chaos.”
“And love equals chaos to you?” He raised a dark eyebrow.
“Not necessarily.” She gave a small, dry laugh. “What are you doing? Trying to be my life coach? You, who has never met a woman he didn’t like, who probably changes girlfriends as often as you change your shirt? You’ve already told me you aren’t the marrying kind, so why is it any different for me not to be the marrying kind?”
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